


four times and one more

by BlackJacketsandPens



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, this wasn't meant to be this long, what the fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 21:39:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5759815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackJacketsandPens/pseuds/BlackJacketsandPens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times the mage and the elf comforted each other, understood each other -- and the one final time it all led to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	four times and one more

**Author's Note:**

> Gratuitous Fenders ship fic tbh. It's an AU from my canon!Hawke, but...ah well. I didn't mean to make it this long but it kind of ran away from me. *prays to fic gods that it isn't OOC*

four times anders and fenris comforted each other, and then the one time it really mattered.

\--

1.

Walking through Darktown, Fenris was never more glad he was well-practiced in avoiding stepping in things. Being barefoot almost all the time gave one cause to keep an eye on the ground, and even on the run (where you had to keep looking behind you) he kept that particular skill sharp.

It was also something to dwell on, at least -- something to distract him from why he was actually down here. Something he really, really didn’t want to think about. 

To think that he had to rely on the aid of a  _ mage _ .

And not just any mage, an abomination. Hawke’s abomination. He still couldn’t understand why the man wanted to keep him around, why he  _ trusted  _ him. (Then again, Garrett Hawke was a mage, too, which frustrated him even more.) But even if Hawke was a mage, Anders -- the abomination -- was...a liability. A risk. Any moment, he could lose control and become a monster. Fenris wasn’t sure why he wasn’t one already.

He turned the last corner, so that the only thing between him and the mage’s clinic was one last small flight of stairs and a short walk. But then he stopped -- the clinic’s door was closed, though the lantern that hung by the entryway was lit. He frowned. It wasn’t his business what the mage got up to, but he supposed Hawke would be concerned, so he approached silently. It wasn’t until his hand hit the rusty doorknob that he was able to hear the commotion within.

“---stop!”

“You can’t tell us what to do, healer! Just stay there like a good boy, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“There’s nothing here!”

“You sure? These look awfully like lyrium potions...and you know, if you’re a mage--”

“You’ll lock me up, throw away the key, I know the deal. Look, if you’re done threatening me, get out. I have people to he--” 

There was the sound of something metallic striking flesh and a grunt of pain. “Shut it, healer,” the man -- the Templar -- snapped. “Your smart mouth is just going to get you hurt.”

The other man in the room laughed. “Unless we shut it for him,” he pointed out. “It isn’t like he  can report us.”

After that, Fenris isn’t sure how it happened, but the next thing he knew he was in the clinic, his hand tight around the wrist of the Templar that was holding Anders down against his desk. It was only then that he took in the scene. One of the Templars was at the mage’s supply shelves, half the contents smashed on the ground and the other half being roughly jostled around -- the rest of the place was similarly in shambles, boxes and chests overturned and dug through. The other, the one whose wrist he was holding, had Anders by both wrists and shoved back against his desk so roughly the mage was practically bent backwards over it. There was a nasty bruise purpling on his forehead and cheek already aside from a split lip, and one of his arms looked out-of-joint. The mage, for his part, looked stunned to see Fenris.

“Get out,” Fenris growled at the Templars. 

The one searching laughed. “And you’re going to make us, knife-ear?” He asked tauntingly, turning to face him. “You aren’t much more of a threat than the healer.”

Fenris snorted -- he couldn’t help it. “I don’t know if you’re genuinely that confident, or simply an idiot,” he said. “Either way, I’m enough of a threat to fetch any group of cutpurses or refugees down here and have you explain to them why you’re attacking their healer.”

The threat worked as he’d hoped -- after all, these two were likely Kirkwall natives, and knew well what kind of chaos a Darktown mob could cause (Fenris wasn’t exactly sure, himself, but he knew mobs well enough to guess), and that the attention of half the refugees in the city wasn’t something they could afford. The one Templar let the mage go, and the other stepped back from the shelves.

“This isn’t over,” one of them warned. “We’ll be back.” That said, they left, and the mage let out a long sigh, sliding to sit on the floor.

“Thanks,” he said, letting his hand glow as he put it on his face; the bruising and cut on his lip faded slowly, and Fenris rolled his eyes.

“Fantastic idea, using magic moments after two Templars have torn your clinic apart,” he snapped, leaning against one of the columns in the clinic. “What about your arm?”

The mage glared at him, but frowned, testing his other arm and wincing. “Dislocated, I think,” he said, too distracted to notice the elf shifting and crouching next to him. “I can probably--” He was cut off by Fenris grabbing the arm and shoulder, roughly popping it back into place. The mage let out a pained yelp, scrabbling at the elf’s arm. “Ow, fuck, Fenris!” He yelped. “What was that for, I could fix it!”

“You could use magic to fix it,” Fenris corrected, sitting back and glaring at him. “And as I said, do you not think that unwise, given what nearly just happened?”

The mage shrugged. “I’m used to being roughed up by Templars,” he said, waving it off and standing. “And besides, now that they’re gone, people are going to start coming in again -- I can’t sit around and wait for things to heal when I’ve got work to do.”

“You’re an idiot,” Fenris replied flatly, standing as well. “You must be, if you really think they don’t know you’re a mage by now. Why aren’t you taking them seriously?”

The mage snorted, moving towards his supplies to start straightening them. “Why do you care? I thought you hated mages. You’d probably love to see me carted off by Templars.”

“Hawke wouldn’t,” Fenris said dryly. “And apparently they still need you for the expedition. And as I’m working with him as well, it’s probably in everyone’s best interest that you stay out of trouble."

The mage snorted. “Thanks,” he said sarcastically. “Truly, your abundance of compassion leaves me breathless. I may swoon.” He rolled his eyes. “Now help me clean up, if you’re actually here for a reason.”

“Fine,” Fenris grunted, and moved to help the mage pick up the glass littering the ground. Eventually he found himself helping clean up the whole clinic, straightening beds and picking up boxes, replacing their contents. The mage grumbled the whole time, counting up empty flasks and vials of whatever was needed to make potions, sorting bundles of elfroot and deep mushrooms and spindleweed and embrium back into their proper places, making notes of what he needed to replace.

Fenris had to admit he was mildly impressed with his supplies -- he hadn’t quite expected a mage to be so reliant on potions and poultices, and he said as much out loud. Anders glanced over, putting the last bit of embrium into its crate. “Well, some people are like you,” he said simply. “They don’t trust magic. When that happens, I have to help them in other ways. I’m a healer, Fenris; even if I don’t use magic to do it, helping people is still kind of what I do.”

“...Oh,” Fenris said after a moment, startled. He hadn’t expected that answer, if he was honest. Mages were mages -- he’d never met a mage that didn’t revel in their power, a mage who admitted that sometimes magic wasn’t the solution. And to hear it from the man who’d spent most of the time they’d been in each other’s presences going on about the rights of mages…

“Serah Healer?” At the voice, Anders glanced up, and smiled, gesturing for the speaker to come in.

“Well, here come my patients,” he said. “I know you needed something, but I have to get to work -- I wouldn’t say no to the help, unless you want to come back later?”

Fenris stood, watching the trickle of refugees and Darktown residents enter the clinic. Some were sick, he could tell, from their pale faces and dark-ringed eyes, coughing and wiping running noses. Others were injured, nursing broken arms or bloody gashes or bruises. But they were all poor, all ragged and bedraggled -- there was a good amount of elves among them, too, scruffy alienage elves and some of those that lived in Darktown.

And he watched Anders take care of them all, with healing spells, or -- when the patient looked uncomfortable -- with bandages and salves and potions. He worked tirelessly through the rest of the day, and despite his earlier mention of Fenris’s help, he only occasionally remembered the elf was there, calling to him to bring him bandages or a potion or to hold some big dockworker down as Anders set his broken arm. 

But the mage helped them all, to a man. Elf or human, refugee or Kirkwall native, adult or child, anyone who came in. Fenris realized his idle, half-bluff of a threat to the Templars earlier probably would have worked better than he’d thought. Anders belonged to these people, the only man to help them. And he did without asking for anything, turning away any offer of a few coppers or a wrapped loaf of bread.

It was...even as the patients began to empty out, leaving the two men alone, Fenris still had trouble believing he’d seen what he had. A mage, and a mage who was so vocally in favor of mages being free at that -- he’d proven to be nothing like what he’d expected. He’d expected someone like a Tevinter, arrogant and selfish and so confident in his own power and pride that he expected the rest of the world to acknowledge it. A prideful man, like any other mage, wanting the world to bend to the whims of people like them, and seeking the power to make it so. 

But that wasn’t Anders, as much as it confused him.

Anders wasn’t fine robes and immaculate appearance, he was a threadbare coat and several days worth of stubble. All he had was a battered metal-and-wood staff, nothing like the elaborate things Tevinters carried. He didn’t sneer or scoff at the poor, but  _ helped  _ them. And he accepted those who were afraid, helped them anyway. 

“You’re very confusing,” he found himself saying, as Anders snuffed the light by the door. The mage turned to raise an eyebrow.

“Am I?” He asked. “That’s news. I like to think I’m very easy to understand. All I want is--” An odd look crossed his face for a moment, and he shook his head. “I just want mages to be treated as people, that’s all. And to help. I thought that one was obvious after today.”

Fenris huffed. “You aren’t what I was expecting,” he admitted, crossing his arms. 

“What were you expecting?” Anders asked with a frown. “Oooh, I’m a scary mage, bow down before my ability to set you on fire, puny mortals?” There was a beat, and then he laughed. “That would be a bit counter-productive, Fenris. I want mages to be free, and running around waving my staff and throwing lightning doesn’t help.”

Fenris swallowed back the initial angry growl that had built in his throat at the mage’s mocking reply, but then he recalled that Anders truly didn’t know -- he hadn’t been there when Fenris had met Hawke. He just knew Fenris didn’t like mages, but not  _ why _ . And Fenris wasn’t in the mood to tell him.

“No, it doesn’t,” he replied instead. “But neither does being an abomination.”

Anders winced, but snorted. “I was helping a friend,” he told him. “I didn’t know what would happen after, and I know Justice is different now, but I have it under  _ control _ .” He rolled his eyes. “It’s not as if I don’t know the risks. I’m a  _ mage _ . I grew up with the risks being beaten into my head every day of my life. I know the risks, and I did it anyway because he needed me. And knowing the risks just makes sure I don’t push my limits.”

“Right,” Fenris muttered. “That’s like putting your hand into a wolf’s mouth and trusting it not to bite you because you ‘know’ how to deal with animals.”

Anders laughed. “That’s a terrible analogy,” he said. “Okay, maybe not, but really, Fenris. I appreciate the concern. But like I told Hawke, I have this under control. Promise.”

Fenris wanted to snap that he wasn’t concerned about Anders, but everyone and anyone who was going to be in the blast zone when the mage lost it, but he kept talking, and the elf remained quiet. “Anyway, you came for a reason, didn’t you? What did you need?”

Fenris coughed, sighing and looking vaguely embarrassed. “I-- needed potions, for the next time Hawke decides he wants my help. But I have...very little coin, so Varric recommended I ask you.” He’d actually added ‘since we’re all friends, right’, and grinned in the way that made Fenris want to strangle him, but that wasn’t pertinent.

“Oh!” Anders laughed. “Yeah, we go through those like water with him, don’t we?” He headed back to one of the crates, rummaging around. “I need to make some more for the next time I go with him. I can’t rely on my spells alone; I can’t exactly heal and fight at the same time. Well, I  _ can _ , but it’s very difficult, and I need to conserve mana, so...potions. And with someone up in the front and someone in the back and Maker knows what in the Void Hawke thinks he’s doing getting in the middle of a dozen thugs when he’s a mage it’s hard to get them all in range, so that’s another reason we need potions, and--” He dropped off, sheepish, as he held out a bag. “And you really should have shut me up sooner, you know.”

“Mm,” Fenris said, taking the bag, the potions within clinking. “You aren’t the only one that questions Hawke’s sanity at times,” he said dryly. “Half the time he’s right next to me during a fight, when he really shouldn’t be.”

Anders snorted. “Right next to-- but you’re the warrior, he shouldn’t be anywhere near you!” He said, laughing. “He’s a nutter, isn’t he?”

“I think we all are, following him like this,” Fenris noted. “But he helped me, like he helped you, so I suppose we owe him that much.”

“We do, at that,” Anders said with a slight smile. “I suppose I’ll see you at the Hanged Man tomorrow night? It seems like it’s starting to become a tradition.”

Fenris shrugged. “Not sure,” he admitted. The whole ‘let’s all go to the bar and play cards’ thing was very new, and he was still skittish in Kirkwall -- he’d only been in that mansion for a month or so -- but it was...a bit reassuring, to have people at his back if he needed them. New and a little disconcerting, but reassuring. “But I probably will be there.”

“Good!” Anders said brightly. “The way Hawke told it, that mansion’s a health hazard. You should get out more.” He patted the elf’s shoulder, but removed his hand quick when he noticed him stiffen. “See you around, then.”

Fenris nodded, padding quietly out the door. He wasn’t quite down the stairs when Anders called out to him, and he turned to look. The man was standing in the doorway, the lantern inside lighting him from behind and making him look a little like one of those painting in the Chantry, which was bemusing. “I...thanks, for earlier,” he said. “I’m glad you showed up when you did.”

“...You’re welcome, mage,” Fenris replied stiffly, a little taken aback at the gratitude, and nodded slightly. “Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again.”

That said, he turned his back on the clinic and walked away into the evening, deciding not to think about confusing mages until the next time he was forced to. He had more important things to worry about.

\--

2.

Three years had passed, and nothing had changed even as everything had. Carver in the Grey Wardens, the remaining Hawkes in Hightown...that had changed, but nothing else had. They still met in the Hanged Man every Friday night, still trailed behind him around Darktown and the Wounded Coast, still got along as well as a motley crew like theirs could.

Aveline was Guard-Captain, and scolded everyone in equal measure. Varric was his usual mysterious self, and kept people out of the business of the others. Merrill was still in the alienage, being her usual cheery self and wandering into other people’s gardens. Isabela was captain of her section of bar, but with the way Hawke kept watching her, the way she’d occasionally glance at him over her mug of ale, the secret wasn’t very well-kept, whatever was between them.

And Anders still ran his clinic, tired and ragged as he looked most days. The fact that he was helping the mage underground was common knowledge among the group, and it seemed like he stretched himself too thin between that, Hawke, and the clinic. But no one could dissuade him.

As for Fenris, he thought he’d been doing as well as anyone in his situation could. Keeping off the map, keeping hidden, he almost thought he was safe, for a time. Living in his stolen mansion, helping Hawke and the others, considering them...friends? Friends. He thought...well, it didn’t matter now.

It didn’t matter, as he slaughtered his way through slavers and mages, through the old caverns, his mind blank except for the red-hot rage that pushed him forward and a single name --  _ Hadriana _ . He knew, vaguely, that Hawke and the others (Anders and Aveline, he thinks) were behind him, but he didn’t care. Of course he wasn’t safe. He’d never be safe. Not until this bitch and her magister were bleeding out at his feet. He should have known better. He shouldn’t have let his guard down.

He barely registered the conversation with the slave girl -- the girl Hawke freed, hired, he had to tell himself, his anger spitting out accusations before he could think -- and pushed forward, not hearing the murmured concern in his wake.

Then a door was opened, a corner turned, and there she was in her fancy Tevinter robes and her ice blue eyes and smug smirk, and he let out a roar -- her name somewhere in it, he thought -- and charged her, sword swinging down as if to split her in half.

The blade bounced off a shimmering barrier, though, and she laughed, flinging a hand out and sending him across the room even as the others started to fight the demons and slavers that were with her. He grunted as he hit the wall and leaped to his feet, ignoring his fallen sword and letting his markings come alive, the battle around him simply passing through his glowing body as he slipped half-in-the-Fade towards the only person in the room, to him.

Her eyes seemed to light with a cruel excitement, and her lips formed a spell as her hand twisted, and suddenly the dull ache of his marks that never left him was a burning agony, pain running through the lines in his skin as if they were being put there for the first time. Another howl left him and he tumbled to the ground, clawing himself through the pain to hands and knees and snarling at her. She just laughed, and her foot connected with his jaw, causing him to lose his balance and hit the ground on his side.

“Woof, woof, little dog,” she said, as if far away. “Bark all you like, your master taught me that spell. He knew it would subdue you easily. Now stay right there like a good boy while I kill your friends.” A pause. “Unless they like living, and in that case, they can just leave you with me, and they can walk out without a fuss. Do we have a deal, handsome?” She laughed, and Fenris flinched almost automatically. “I mean, you and the pretty blond are mages, too, are you not? I’m sure we can work something out.”

This was it, part of him realized. They’d show their true colors, and he was done. It was over. Part of him struggled to hope, but six years wasn’t enough for that part of him to last long, and he simply knew this was the end.

He didn’t expect the buzz of magic in his ears and a scream from Hadriana, her spell snapping off as she was thrown against the bars of the empty cell behind her. He managed to get back to hands and knees, Aveline beside him helping him to his feet as he looked around for the source of the attack.

Hawke was white-faced with rage, his staff in his hands, but it was Anders who had thrown the spell, his face twisted with an expression of hatred and fury, blue sparking at the edges of his eyes and crackling along his skin; a man on the edge of losing control.

“You-- you sick Tevinter bitch!” Anders snarled, his voice echoing painfully to Fenris’s ears. “You think because you’re a mage you have the right to-- to  _ enslave  _ people, to murder them for your magic!? This isn’t Tevinter, and he isn’t a slave! And you’re insane if you think we’ll hand him over!”

Hadriana laughed as she stood, shaking her head. “But don’t we?” She asked. “We have power, we have the ability to do things most only dream of doing. Why should we not use this power? Otherwise, we’re just cowering fools like the ones in your southern Circles, afraid of a few sets of armor when we could kill them all with just a gesture.” She was cut off as Anders sent another spell her way, and she threw her hands up at the burst of light as it hit the bars next to her.

“Shut up!” Anders roared, and everyone could hear the undercurrent of Justice in his voice. “Don’t you dare talk about things you don’t understand! You don’t understand our fear, you don’t get to talk about it as if rebellion is so easy, so simple! We’re slaves to the Circle, and yet you talk about revolution as if you wouldn’t put it down the moment you saw it in yours!” He flicked his wrist, and Fenris could feel the warmth of a healing spell trickle down his spine, easing the echoes of pain from whatever spell she’d used on him.

Hadriana whimpered, pressed against the bars behind her. Anders stalked forward, slamming his staff against her chest, though he wasn’t looking at her, but watching Fenris as he fetched his sword. He stepped aside to let the elf at her, and Hadriana tried one last time to fight back, casting a spell and sending it at Fenris. He stepped out of its path and strode forward, grabbing her by her collar and throwing her to the side, letting her hit the wall and sink down. He stalked over to her where she lay, dazed, and raised his sword.

“Stop!” She begged. “You don’t want me dead!”

Fenris scoffed. “There is only one person I want dead more,” he snarled, and the sword was halfway through its swing downward when the mage spoke again, her words frantic, and everyone froze.

“You have a sister! She is alive!” She cried, and Fenris’s eyes widened. A sister? A sibling? Like Carver was to Hawke?  _ Blood family? _ \--No, she was lying, she had to be. She would say anything to save her skin. But his sword faltered, and he staggered back a step. Hadriana saw her chance and sat up, pushing forward. “You wish to reclaim your life? Let me go, and I will tell you where she is.”

Fenris felt numb, like he couldn’t speak. A sister? Alive? But-- no, she was lying. She had to be lying. He felt a warm hand against his back, and Hawke’s voice spoke next to him.

“This is your call, Fenris,” he said softly, and the words and his presence were enough to shake him out of the daze and get him to think, to decide.

He shifted, moving to kneel in front of the mage, his eyes narrowing, though he was unable to keep his voice neutral. “You have a deal. Talk.”

Hadriana relaxed a bit, and she smiled. “Her name is Varania,” she said. “She is in Qarinus, serving a magister by the name of Ahriman.”

“A servant?” Fenris asked, his voice rough. “Not a slave?”

Hadriana nodded. “She is not a slave,” she agreed. And Fenris smiled, and it wasn’t a pleasant smile.

“I believe you,” he said, and his markings flash, and his fist buried itself in her chest. She let out a single choked gasp and fell back, and he stood sharply, her blood on his hand and splattered on his chest and then he was stalking back through the room, a dismissal on his lips and a thousand thoughts buzzing like wasps around his head. A chain had been broken, but he had a sister. Hadriana was dead, but his sister -- Varania -- was alive.

He heard Hawke ask him something -- does he want to  _ talk? _ \-- and he lashed out, words bitter on his lips but coming faster than he could think, angry and hurt and snarling like the animal he is. “No!” He snapped. “I don’t want to talk about it! This could be a- a trick, a trap! Danarius could have sent her here to tell me about this ‘sister’! And even if he didn’t, trying to find her would be suicide!” He shook his head, his voice trembling and rough, fear threading through the anger. “Danarius has to know about her, he has to know that Hadriana knows…” He swallowed it back, and glanced back at the cooling body of the woman who’d tormented him so. “But all that matters is I finally got to crush that bitch’s heart,” he snarled, his voice shaking with emotion he couldn’t name, didn’t have the words to even if he could think. “May she  _ rot _ , and all other mages with her.”

“Fenris--”

He felt a hand on his shoulder but he shoved it off, not caring if Hawke was a mage, not caring about anything but his own pain. “No!” He ground out. “You saw what was done here! There’s always going to be some reason, some excuse why mages need to do this! Even if I found my sister, who knows what the magisters have done to her?!” His voice cracked, and he didn’t turn around to see the others, his world empty save for him. “What has magic touched that it doesn’t spoil?!”

There was silence, and he couldn’t risk a look back. “I-- I need to go,” he managed, and his feet were pounding silently against the stone, and he didn’t stop until he was back in Kirkwall, chest heaving. He couldn’t think through the screaming in his head, a thousand thoughts that wouldn’t settle, anger and hurt and old memories like open wounds. He didn’t know how he found himself at the Hawke mansion, pacing in the foyer until the mage arrived, fumbling out an awkward apology, the man smiling in that endlessly kind way of his, crooked and good-natured and nothing like any mage he’d ever met, and putting hands on his shoulders and reassuring the elf that they were friends, and he was there, and it was okay.

But that wasn’t what he wanted to hear, even as it was, and he fled to his own mansion as soon as he could, disappearing into the cellars and the bottom of as many wine bottles as he could still scavenge from the ample supply.

He didn’t even hear anyone enter, curled in on himself and the half-empty bottle of wine in his hands, until the footsteps stopped in front of him, and a familiar voice said in that infuriatingly cheerful tone of his. “Maker bless, Hawke wasn’t kidding. This place really is a health hazard.”

“Go away, mage,” he said, only it came out slurred and half-coherent, and the brown eyes he could see over the bottle softened.

“You’re drunk,” Anders said. “So no. Come on, let’s get you to a bed, if there are any that still function in here.”

He struggled against the mage’s hands -- callused and somehow still soft, long fingers and chipped nails -- but he sagged, letting the taller man take him up the stairs and into a bedroom, helping him sit, sitting next to him and letting the elf slump against his shoulder.

“I had no idea,” Anders said after a long silence, his voice sounding oddly strained. “Hawke never told me.  _ You _ never told me. I didn’t think-- I didn’t know. I thought you hated mages for some stupid, selfish reason like everyone else. I didn’t think...I’m sorry.”

It took Fenris a moment to understand, and then frowned. “Didn’t realize it would matter to you,” he muttered.

“It _ does _ ,” Anders insisted. “You have every reason -- shut up, Justice -- you have every reason to feel like you do. I’ve only heard of what they do in Tevinter, but seeing the way those people spoke to you,  _ about  _ you, the way that crazy bitch talked... _ I’d  _ hate mages, if that’s all I knew about them. It matters to me, that something like that happened.”

“Why?”

Anders sighed. “Because I’ve been an arse, without realizing,” he said. “I kept trying to talk to you like I talk to everyone else, thinking that they only hate mages because they don’t know any better, because they’re narrow-minded and stubborn, but you-- that’s not the case with you. You’ve seen the worst of us, and it’s only fair that you think everyone’s like that.” He paused. “It’s not true, but-- but it makes sense that you think that way. I’m sorry for-- for making light of what you went through, without realizing it.”

Fenris’s mouth twitched, and he sat up to look at Anders properly. “You’re nothing like a magister,” he said, his tongue loosened by drink. “You or Hawke or Merrill. Merrill’s too innocent, she’s just a little girl playing with fire. Hawke is too friendly, too open, too easy to trust.” He shook his head. “And you’re-- you’re too nice. You help too much. Give too much. I don’t understand any of you.”

“Magic doesn’t spoil everything,” Anders said quietly. “I won’t lie and say magic’s never done anything wrong; you’re proof of that. But magic can do good. I promise you that. I can  _ show  _ you that, if you let me.”

Fenris shook his head, sliding off the bed to sit bonelessly on the floor, back against the frame. “You already do,” he said absently. “You...you heal. Anyone who needs it. I never thought magic could...feel like that. Warm and soft. It always hurt, every time I can remember. But yours doesn’t, when you heal. I trust your hands.” He wasn’t sure what he was saying, but the words were stumbling out of him, slurred and distracted. 

“There are so many things I could say to that,” Anders hummed, amused. “But you’re completely shit-faced and it wouldn’t be any fun, so I won’t.” He slid down to sit next to Fenris, letting the drunk elf lean on him again. “I’m glad you trust me, Fenris. I know now how much that means. I’ll try not to let you down.”

Fenris just made a soft noise of assent, letting his eyes slide closed. The man next to him was a mage, he knew, and he shouldn’t be so relaxed, but...this man healed. Didn’t hurt. Protected. So to his barely-coherent mind, it was okay. 

And that’s how he fell asleep, leaning against Anders, completely at ease.

\--

3.  
  


Sometimes Fenris wondered how it was possible that Hawke and the rest of his group could get into so much trouble on such a regular basis. It hadn’t been two full weeks since the incident with Hadriana, and now they were following Anders through a series of ratty tunnels to help him get proof of something some Templar was planning, some ‘Tranquil Solution’. Fenris was only vaguely aware of what that meant; he knew what Tranquility was, but didn’t understand, really, how bad it was. But Hawke was indignant enough for the both of them, and so he followed the two mages, Isabela with them. 

A corner turned, and another, some spiders slaughtered (Maker, but there were so many spiders in these caves), and then Anders pushed a door open, and voices filtered through.

“--Please, ser, don’t!” A girl begged, and he could see a skinny young thing, barely into her twenties, her robes slightly askew and looking terrified. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“That’s a lie,” the bald, bearded Templar confronting her purred, and disgust was cold down Fenris’s spine; the smugness in his voice was comparable to a magister -- that knowledge that he could do anything he wanted to this girl. “What do we do to mages who lie?”

The girl whimpered. “I just wanted to see my mum,” she pleaded. “No one ever told her where they were taking me!”

Anders beside him shuddered, magic flickering across his skin, and he murmured something, pressing fingers to his head. Hawke put a hand on the other mage’s arm and Fenris shifted to stand half in front of him, glancing at Isabela, who already had her knives drawn. This was going to get ugly.

“So, you admit your attempted escape,” the Templar said smugly. “You know what happens to mage girls who don’t toe the line around here, don’t you?”

The girl let out a terrified squeak, her eyes widening, and even if Fenris couldn’t guess the subtext of the threat before, her reaction was more than enough as she dropped to her knees, begging. “Please, no!” She whimpered. “Don’t make me Tranquil! I’ll do anything!”

The Templar just laughed. “That’s right,” he said, kneeling to cup the girl’s face. “Once you’re Tranquil, you’ll do anything I ask.”

Fenris couldn’t stifle the growl that escaped him, and around him he saw Isabela snarl wordlessly, while Hawke, visibly angry, stepped forward to block Anders, who had already drawn his staff.

“I think the Chantry frowns on Templars who take personal advantage of their charges,” he said tightly.

The Templar turned, eyebrows raising. “Who’s this, now?” He asked, but Anders was alight, magic pouring out of him as his skin seemed to crack open, revealing nothing but sparking blue light, his eyes blazing with the same and his voice echoing and angrier than any of them had ever seen, angrier than he’d even been at Hadriana.

**_“You fiends will never touch a mage again!”_ ** He roared, and magic was already flying through the cavern, the four of them versus the dozen or so Templars that had been in the room, including their leader. 

Fenris found himself near the girl, on the ground and terrified, and he hauled her to her feet. “Get up those stairs,” he ordered her, and she nodded, wiping at her face. “Are you hurt?”

“N-No,” she managed. “Thanks to you. If he’d...that’s Ser Alrik. Everyone knows what he does to Tranquils, a-and even people who aren’t,” she explained. “He...does things. He likes it when we beg, a-and we know never to anger him. I-I shouldn’t have run. If I knew he were the one who…”

Fenris swallowed bile, and shoved her gently. “Then get back to the Circle,” he told her. “Or hide, until it’s over. Whatever you want.” She nodded, and ducked behind some rocks, and he turned back to the battle. 

That this man, this Templar, would assault mages so openly, would abuse them and make them scared, make them beg for their lives...even  _ Fenris  _ knew that wasn’t what Templars were meant to be. The way she spoke...that was how slaves were treated. Things, toys to assault and punish when they did something you didn’t like. It was...wrong, and the thought was bitterly ironic.

He heard a scream, then, and whipped around to see Anders on the ground, Alrik’s sword through his shoulder and whatever magic he was trying to muster flickering and dying. Fenris was across the cavern in moments, even as Alrik spoke, leaning on the sword.

“You had to interrupt my business, didn’t you, apostate?” He was saying. “I suppose you’ll do good as any, if the girl’s gone. Then again, bet apostates like you don’t know how to beg properly. I’ll have to teach y--”

He was interrupted by a fist slamming hard into his face, knocking him backwards even as Fenris stood over Anders, eyes blazing.

“You will not touch him,” Fenris snarled. “Or any mage, ever again. I was under the impression Templars were meant to protect their charges in the Circles, from themselves and from the public, not-- not treat them like toys for your own pleasure!”

Alrik snorted. “Mages aren’t people, stupid knife-ear,” he said with a laugh. “They’re just threats needing to be contained. No one cares what we do to them once we’ve got them; they’re property of the Circle and the Order, after all.”

Fenris flinched. “No one is anyone’s property!” He snapped, ripping the sword out of Anders’ shoulder with a quick jerk and stalking forward, throwing it to the side and coming after the arrogant Templar with his own sword raised.

Alrik yelped, throwing himself at his blade and not quite making it, Fenris slamming the flat of his greatsword into his chest enough to buckle the Templar over double, and then spinning behind him to grab the back of his neck and shove him on his knees, pushing him down as the blue-lit mage stood again.

“He’s yours, mage,” Fenris said with a snarl. “If you want him to beg for his life, you need only ask.”

The blank blue eyes flickered up to the elf for a moment, and then back to Alrik, and the point of his staff was driven deep into the man’s throat. He ripped it out and watched Alrik fall, and then turned, head swiveling as if searching for Templars in the nooks and crannies of the cavern.

**_“They will die,”_ ** he roared, his voice still echoing and deep, making Fenris step back.  **_“I will have every last Templar for these abuses!”_ **

Hawke replaced his staff on his back and stepped forward, cautious. “Anders, it’s over,” he tried. “They’re all dead.”

The mage didn’t seem to hear. **_“Every one of them will feel Justice’s burn!”_ ** He snarled out, and then turned to see Ella, who had slipped out of her hiding spot and was now watching Anders with almost as much terror as she had Alrik.

“G-Get away from me, demon!” She yelped, frightened, but that only seemed to make the mage angrier. 

He stalked forward, his staff still bloody and still in his hand.  **_“I am no demon!”_ ** He ground out.  **_“Are you one of them, that you would call me such?!”_ **

Hawke’s eyes widened, but it was Fenris who was back across the cavern, grabbing Anders by the arm holding the staff and yanking him back. “Mage!” He snapped. “She is like you! Would you kill one of your own just after saving her life?!”

**_“She is theirs, elf!”_ ** He snarled, struggling in his grip.  **_“I can feel their hold on her!”_ **

Fenris growled. “Aren’t people like her the reason you do this?!” He continued. “You are supposed to be  _ saving  _ them, mage, not slaughtering them!”

“Please, messere!” The girl begged, backing away. Anders struggled, lifting a hand as if to cast, but then Fenris could feel the man’s whole body shudder and jerk in his grip, and the blue glow flashed bright and then faded, Anders letting out a cry and slumping as the light in his eyes died, and his face shifted from rage to horror.

The girl ran for it, and Anders shook his head, his face white. “Maker, no,” he whispered. “I almost-- if you weren’t here, I-- I--” His legs wobbled underneath him, as if he were about to fall. “I need to get out of here,” he rasped, and yanked his arm out of Fenris’s grasp, fleeing the way they had come.

Fenris turned to watch him, and then turned to look at the others. “Go after the girl,” he told Hawke and Isabela. “I’ll see to the mage.”

The two other nodded, and he took off after Anders. The trail the mage left wasn’t obvious to anyone, but Fenris could feel the traces of his magic brushing against his markings, and it was easy to guess where he’d gone. Back to his clinic; where else did he have?

He pushed the clinic’s door open, looking around to find Anders in a corner of the room surrounded by strewn belongings, knees up to his chest and face buried in them, arms hugging his legs tightly. He was shaking, and as Fenris got closer, he could hear the sobs.  _ Fasta vass. _

“...Mage?”

Anders choked on his tears, not looking up. “Go away!” He managed. “Don’t-- I don’t want to-- to-- Maker,  _ no _ …”

Fenris sighed, crouching down. “The girl is unhurt,” he said softly. “You harmed no one who did not deserve it.”

“But I  _ lost control _ ,” Anders said, wiping at his face. “I said I wouldn’t, and I did. I lost it. I-- Maker, I can’t. I could have-- what if I had-- I was wrong, I  _ am  _ a monster!”

Fenris sighed. “You didn’t.” He said flatly. “Stop this. You lost control, but you regained it again. You won against the spirit this time.”

“But what if there’s a  _ next  _ time?!” Anders said desperately. “What if I slip again?! Or- or worse, what if I hurt a patient?! I can’t-- I can’t trust myself anymore, what if that-- that creature of Vengeance, what if he hurts someone I’m trying to heal?!”

“Then I’ll kill you before you hurt anyone,” Fenris told him, surprised at himself but realizing he meant it. “That is a promise.”

Anders blinked, startled silent, and then laughed weakly. “It’s a sad day when  _ that  _ reassures me,” he murmured. “Thanks, Fenris. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” Fenris said, and then fell silent for a long while, shifting to sit next to Anders. Finally, he spoke up, voicing the question that had been sitting like a weight in his chest. “Does that happen often?” He asked. “What Alrik did.” He sighed. “I don’t know if you would know, as you’re an apostate like Hawke, but--”

He was cut off by a laugh, weak and broken. “You-- I’m not an apostate, Fenris,” Anders said, glancing over at him. “You really thought I was-- I’m not. I was a Circle mage in Ferelden until I joined the Wardens. And-- and yes. It happens more than you’d think...to a lot of mages, the ones who don’t toe the line. Some they make Tranquil first, and some-- some they don’t.”

Fenris blinked, and then the weight turned into a hand, squeezing his heart as he realized what Anders meant. “Like you,” he said. “It’s happened to you.”

“Yeah,” Anders said quietly. “A few times. I...used to try escaping all the time,” he explained. “Six, seven times, all total. Seventh was the lucky one. But before...they’d catch me. Sometimes I’d get a light punishment, locked in my room and guarded, but sometimes they’d...they’d lock me down in the cellars, all on my own. The first couple times weren’t that long, it was fine, but-- but the last time they did it was for a year. Mostly they left me there alone, but sometimes some of them would...come down, and sometimes they’d just kick me around, but other times, they’d...you know.” 

He laughed weakly. “I got used to it, I guess...expected it. It’s why I-- why I want to help. I know what it’s like in the Circles, for a lot of mages. I want it to be safe, and if it can’t be safe, then I want us to be free.” He let out a breath. “And it’s why I’m so angry. Why I corrupted Justice.”

Fenris let out a growl. “You have the right to be angry,” he said suddenly. “I may not trust mages, think the Circles are more useful than not, but even then, I do not think they should be treated as you’ve said, as I’ve now seen. If this is how Kirkwall treats their mages, then I am not surprised there are so many blood mages, so many abominations.” He snorted. “The mages here don’t need to make up excuses to seek power, not when the Templars  _ hand  _ it to them. If they mean to protect mages, they are doing a far better job at enabling the worst of the lot.”

“Oh,” Anders said, a little dazed. “I...you’re the last person I thought would say something like that.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “I am no fool. Magic is dangerous, and so are mages, but the Circle here-- all it does is give them all reasons to be dangerous. As far as I was aware, Circles are meant to protect, not...whatever this is they’re doing.”

“I...yeah,” Anders said finally, letting his head drop to Fenris’s shoulder. “I thought it would work, just trying to get people to see that, to reform the Circles and make them all safe. But I know that’s impossible. So mages have to be free. If the Circles won’t protect them, then they have to be.”

Fenris glanced down at him. “It may be impossible here, but I doubt every Circle is as rotted as this one. I don’t believe freedom will work as well as you believe. Perhaps some will be kind, like you, but there will always be mages that abuse their freedom, and those are the ones people will see. Even one of them is enough to harm people, and that is something no one wants.”

“I know that,” Anders said, his voice thick with desperation. “But even if not all of them are good, what else can we do? We can’t-- we can’t pick and choose who we free. ‘Oh, you won’t hurt anyone, so you can go, but you’re bad, so you have to stay and be abused by Templars’. We can’t do that. It’s all or nothing, Fenris. It’s the only choice we have left.”

“No, it isn’t,” Fenris said, and then sighed. “I don’t think we’ll ever agree,” he said dryly. “But at least we understand one another, I suppose. Hawke will have to live with that.”

Anders laughed weakly, sagging more heavily onto Fenris. “That’s good enough for me,” he said quietly, and there was silence for a long moment.

“Fenris?” He asked, finally, and the elf grunted in response. “Will you...stay? Just for tonight? I don’t want to be alone with...with him.”

Fenris shifted, turning to look down at the mage leaning against him. He was a mess, his hair coming out of its ponytail and his ghost-pale, freckled face was streaked with tears, his eyes ringed with shadows. His coat looked especially threadbare and ragged in the dimming light, the feathers on his pauldrons molting like an especially ill, worn-out sparrow. 

He sighed. “I’ll stay,” he said quietly, slinging an arm around the man. After all, Anders had stayed the night he’d drunk himself sick after dealing with Hadriana. Anders had...cared, for some unfathomable reason, for a belligerent, mage-hating elf like him. And he supposed, for the same strange reason, he cared about this foolish scarecrow of a mage.

Maybe it was simply shared pain. Both of them had been hurt, deeply, by people who had treated them like animals, like less. And they seemed to have found that in common, despite their differences. Their...very pronounced differences. Huh.

Eventually, his thoughts drifted, and he found himself asleep next to the mage, arm around his shoulders and hand somehow tangled in his hair.

It was oddly peaceful.

\--

4.

Somehow, without realizing, three more years had passed. The group lost Leandra, nearly lost Isabela but found her again, and watched as Kirkwall burned and the Qunari sent blood through the streets -- and watched as Garrett Hawke emerged as Champion.

It was strange, watching so much change as so much didn’t. After six years, Kirkwall almost felt like a real home to Fenris. The people real friends, real family. He trusted them. Trusted Hawke and Isabela, the lovers now almost secure in their feelings. Varric, who seemed to be so eminently trustworthy even as he probably wasn’t. Aveline, the guard-captain, no longer Vallen but Hendyr --  and Donnic, her new husband, a good man. Merrill, little blood mage with her head in the clouds, trying to fix a mirror that didn’t want to be fixed (or it did; he wasn’t stupid enough to be curious).

And then there was Anders. The mage, the abomination, the man who had wormed his way into Fenris’s heart without really even trying. It was strange and confusing, and he’d never experienced anything like it before -- but the mage haunted the edges of his thoughts like no one else ever had. The red-gold of his hair and dark honey brown of his eyes, the scruff and the dark circles signs of his perpetual lack of sleep. The tired, crooked smile he had started to use less and less as the years passed. The warmth of his thin, callused fingers and the way his healing magic slid like warm syrup down his spine, easing aches and mending wounds. His threadbare coat, the blue and brown cloth replaced with black, the feathers that drooped on his pauldrons and made him look like a raggedy crow.

The desperate, pained look in his eyes when he let his confidence fall away and acknowledged how scared he was of himself, how angry he was at the world. The way his whole body shook as he cried, his scant belongings around him like he’d been halfway through tearing his life apart when he couldn’t do it anymore. The way he healed anyone who asked, anyone who didn’t -- anyone who appeared in his doorway, even as he was falling over with exhaustion and running on lyrium potions and stubbornness.

He was a mess and they both knew it, and it was a small miracle that Anders let him see what he hid even from Hawke. And that Fenris returned the favor -- let him see the days he woke with memories of pain and broken bones and hands on his body sending him fleeing into bottles, the days where the perpetual ache of his markings was too much, and he let it wash over him, let it make him snappish and dizzy with the pain.

There was peace in their shared pain; they understood where it came from. A place that had treated them like nothing, used and abused them until they had fled to freedom. They dealt with their freedom far differently -- the mage fighting to give that freedom to others, while the elf fought to keep the freedom he had won for himself -- but it was freedom earned after a long, painful fight. And it drew them to each other, like to like, even as their differences made them keep the other at arm’s length.

They danced around anything they had, anything that might be there, with both the clumsy awkwardness of shy teenagers and the skill of two men deft at avoiding topics they didn’t want to think about.

But even so, it was Anders Fenris went to before Hawke, to admit that he’d written (painfully, with the hard-won skills he’d managed to learn from both mages) his sister -- and she was alive, the lie had been fact, and now she was here. Now she was here, and waiting, and the more he assured himself it would be well, the more he was convinced it wouldn’t be. He couldn’t do it alone.

“Come with me,” he’d asked, eyes pleading even though his voice was steady. “I need you there when I meet her.”

And so Anders was there, with Hawke, with Varric, and Isabela in the corner with her eyes alert for trouble. He stepped through the door and it was oddly quiet, but his eyes flickered from table to table, and-- there. That was her. His memories were still blank, scraped clean with agony, but he knew her nonetheless. Red hair, pulled back from her face in a bun, and the same eyes as him. Paler skin, but similar features. A plain dress, but a well-made one. She sat at a table, and looked up to see him, and something crossed her face he didn’t recognize, but he didn’t care.

“It really is you,” she said, and her voice pulled at something deep in him, something long forgotten.

“Varania,” he said, the name tasting at once strange and so familiar on his tongue. “I...I remember you.” And he did, in scraps and fragments. They danced around his head just out of reach, just far enough for him to brush fingers against them, but not close enough to keep hold. But he knew the woman in front of him, knew her in his bones even if his mind couldn’t hang onto that knowledge. “We used to...we played in our master’s courtyard while Mother worked…” His voice sounded so far away, the memory he spoke of feeling like it belonged to a different man. “You...you called me…”

“Leto,” she said, and Maker but the name screamed familiarity, even as it didn’t. His name? Leto? That was him...he was Leto. More than Fenris, more than Danarius’s little wolf.  _ Leto _ . It was so much, and he barely heard the rest of what she said. “It’s your name.”

His name...his name. It was his name. He blinked, then, something in his sister’s face sending a shiver of alarm down his spine. “...Is something wrong?” He asked, feeling again so very far away from all this. “Why are you so…”

There was shifting behind him, and a big hand was at his back. “Fenris,” Hawke said softly, urgently. “We need to get out of here.”

He didn’t register the words, but registered the tone, and his hackles raised, he took a step back -- and then a voice floated down the stairs at the back of the bar, and he froze, bile rising in his throat. That voice, smug and smooth like poisoned wine, making every bone in his body want to drop to his knees, beg forgiveness, even as he felt like throwing up in terror that was suddenly so very real. All his words of hatred, of rage, they were all empty now, face to face with his former master, and all that was left was sick terror.

“Ah, my little Fenris,” Danarius said, striding down the stairs like he owned all of Kirkwall, several armored guards behind him. “Predictable as always.”

His breath caught, and his eyes flickered to his sister, who had stepped away from them, clutching her hands in her skirt, eyes on the floor. “I’m sorry it came to this, Leto,” she managed, her voice weak and shaky and threaded with emotion.

He choked on her words. “You led him here,” he managed, voice rough. She’d-- his sister had-- but  _ why _ \--?

“Now, now, Fenris,” Danarius scolded lightly, and he flinched, his legs threatening to buckle and spill him on his knees in abasement. “Don’t blame your sister. She did what any good Imperial citizen should.” He looked from his face -- instincts screaming he shouldn’t dare look directly at his master -- to hers, and she looked guilty, confused, pained, and looked away.

Fenris swallowed bile again, forcing his rage past his fear, letting himself spit angry words at the magister. “I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius,” he snarled, and there was a split second of flinch from his sister, a moment’s eyes widening. “But I won’t let you kill me to get them.”

Danarius just laughed, and it turned his blood to ice. How was he still standing? His stomach roiled, his mouth tasted sour, his hands shook. The burst of anger he’d pushed forward could only carry him for so long. “How little you know, my pet,” Danarius purred, as his guards stepped forward, and then the magister’s eyes found Hawke. Fenris turned slightly, remembering they were there.

Hawke looked drawn and furious. Isabela in the corner was gripping her mug tight enough to bend the cheap metal handle. Varric was uncharacteristically grim. And Anders was white, trembling, blue flickering at his edges.

“So this is your new master. The Champion of Kirkwall,” Danarius said, and they all flinched, but Hawke let out an audible snarl. “Impressive.”

Hawke surged forward, all broad shoulders and thick beard and his voice was pure venom and hate, and for a moment Fenris felt like he could be brave. “Fenris is no one’s Maker-damn slave, bastard,” he snarled. “He belongs to no one.”

Danarius chuckled again, and shook his head, clucking like an amused father. It made Fenris sick. “Do I detect a note of jealousy?” He asked, and then the wood shifted underneath Fenris, his stomach rolling like a ship in a storm. No, no no no. Don’t. Not that. “It’s not surprising. The lad is rather... _ skilled _ , isn’t he?”

He could hear several sharp breaths from the others, could see Isabela in her corner going white and then red, the handle on her mug snapping. Could hear Hawke snarl a curse, could hear Varric’s fingers tap against Bianca. Could hear Anders’ breath quicken, grow labored, as if it were a great strain, holding back the justice that threatened to spill out from him.

“Shut your mouth, Danarius!” He snarled, markings shimmering to life, and it felt good not to call him master, even if some primal part of him shied away from it in fear. He could see Varania backing away, frightened, and Danarius shook his head.

“The word is  _ master _ ,” he said, scolding. “I suppose once this is over I’ll have to teach you again.”

His staff was in his hands and the guards drew their swords and the battle began. Fenris didn’t even flinch before throwing himself at Danarius with a wordless howl, markings ablaze, forgetting everything but the desire to tear this man’s throat out, rip out his black heart and crush it in his hand.

He was half-through the barrier the magister conjured -- why wasn’t he afraid -- and then a hand lifted -- was that a vial -- and he felt a pull in his bones, in his blood, and he crashed to the floor, screaming. The markings, his blood, everything burned like fire, and he could faintly see Danarius smirk, the vial -- it was his blood, venhedis, of course he had his blood -- in his hand glowing, the crimson in it thick and poisonous and he screamed, curling in on himself. 

Hawke yelled something, heavy footsteps across the bar even as the others fended off the guards, but then he could see blue light bathe the bar from where he lay, and a voice cut through the noise and the pain.

**_“You monster,”_ ** the dual-voice roared.  **_“You foul creature, you disgusting filth-- you are a demon, you are cruel and sick to do this, to harm a man in this way, and I will see justice served to you just was I will to any other perpetrator of such evil deeds.”_ ** A shift.  **_“Hawke, to me! We will end this magister.”_ **

The fight faded out, his own agony deafening in his ears, but the light was warm on his skin, prickling his markings, and the words had been an odd comfort -- a mage, his mage, so furious that even the spirit he held in him fought for Fenris’ sake. 

And then there was a shift and the shatter of glass after what seemed like an eternity, and the spell winked out, the agony snapped off. He managed to scrabble to his feet, gasping for air, and could only watch as the glowing mage punched Danarius in the face, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him at Fenris.

**_“He is yours, Fenris,”_ ** Justice -- he knew by now that this was not his mage, but the spirit -- said, and he realized that was the first time the thing had used his name.  **_“You are who he hurt, and it is only you who can pass the sentence.”_ **

Fenris choked back words. This was it. Danarius, at his mercy. His friends here, helping him, and now the last link in his chains was before him. Too proud to beg, the magister watched him with a smirk, as if to say  _ you’ll never be free of me _ .

“You,” Fenris said, finding his voice, his markings ablaze as he stalked forward, arm raised. “You are  _ no longer my master. _ ” Triumph in his voice, and then his hand slid through the man’s chest, fingers finding the heart and squeezing, crushing, and the weight of it in his hand as it burst and the blood on his armor as he ripped his arm out again and Justice let the body fall and it echoed, to him, as it hit the floor. 

Free. He was free, he was free, he was  _ free _ . Danarius was dead and gone and his blood was staining the wood beneath his feet and he would never hurt him again, never touch him again, and he was safe and-- his sister.

He turned to her, her eyes wide and frightened, and he strode towards her, stepping over bodies. “I-I had no choice, Leto,” she pleaded, but he didn’t hear her, didn’t hear the pain in her voice.

“Stop calling me that,” he spit, but there was less anger and more raw pain in his voice, in his eyes. 

Her voice shook. “He said-- he was going to make me his apprentice,” she managed, and the doubt and uncertainty in her voice shook something loose in him even as he realized what that meant, his stomach dropping.

“You sold out your own brother for  _ that?” _ He asked, his voice rising, hysteria edging it.

Varania shook her head, fingers white in her skirts. “You have no idea what we went through, what I’ve had to do since Mother died,” she said, almost as if trying to convince herself. “This-- this was my only chance…”

Part of him remembered, understood what she meant -- part of him knew liberati was no blessing, almost as bad as a slave, and a liberati woman alone, even a mage (he felt sick at the thought, but he didn’t know why, his sister a mage, why did that hurt him so much?) would be struggling -- but that part was overshadowed by his hurt, his betrayal, his raw pain, and he lit up again, opening his mouth to growl something out and he could see fear in her eyes, fear and guilt and hurt--

And Hawke grabbed his arm. “Wait, Fenris,” he said. “Don’t do this.”

“Why not?!” Fenris demanded, though his resolve shook even at the words. “She was ready to see me killed! What is she to me?!”

Hawke’s voice was soft, soothing. “She’s your sister,” he said. “Your family, Fenris.”

“Elf-- Fenris,” Varric put in, his own voice sympathetic, the use of his real name shaking Fenris’s resolve further. “I know how hard this is to believe, but this is the last thing you want to do.”

He swallowed, and looked at her again, at her eyes --  _ his _ eyes -- and the pain in them, the guilt and fear, and he couldn’t do it. He dimmed, and looked away. “Get out,” he rasped.

Hawke stepped to the side and the woman tripped over herself to run past them, run to the door, but something seemed to stop her, and she turned in the doorway, her eyes fixing on Fenris.

There was pain in her voice when she spoke, undisguised bitterness mingling with that same guilt and something like sorrow. “You said you didn’t ask for this, but that’s not true. You wanted it,” she said, and Fenris felt sick. He wanted to tell her to stop, to shut up, but his mouth wouldn’t open, and she continued. “You  _ competed  _ for it. When you won you used the boon to have Mother and I freed.”

“Why are you telling me this?” He managed, his voice breaking. No, she had to be lying. Why would he-- why had he-- no. No, no, no. This is all wrong. All wrong.

His sister’s eyes softened a moment, the sorrow sinking deeper, and her mouth twisted bitterly. “Freedom was no boon, not in Tevinter,” she said quietly, her own voice shaking. “I look on you now, and I think you received the better end of the bargain.”

She spun on her heel and fled, and Fenris strained not to hear the soft sobs as she disappeared into the setting sun.

He staggered, the weight of it all settling on his shoulders, and he felt ill. All he wanted was to run, run until he couldn’t anymore, until his legs gave out and he was far, far away from all this.

“I…” His voice choked. “I thought...discovering my past would bring a sense of belonging...but I was wrong. Magic...magic has tainted that, too.” This time Hawke didn’t even flinch at the words, his brow knit and his face sad. “There is nothing for me to reclaim...I am alone.”

Hawke let out a soft exhale. “You aren’t alone,” he said gently. “You have us.”

Fenris choked on that, on the trust, the friendship that for some reason stung like acid. He glanced around; Varric looked pensive, quiet. Isabela was watching him, her eyes almost soft and warm. Anders sat next to her, pale and trembling and looking as ill as he felt, shaking hands clutching a mug of something likely alcoholic, brown eyes fixed on the floor.

“You heard what she said,” he managed. “I wanted these. I  _ fought  _ for them. I feel unclean.” More than he ever had. “Like this magic-- like it’s not only etched into my skin, but also stained my  _ soul _ .” Like he was tainted, dirty, and worse-- he’d asked for this fate. Maybe he hadn’t known what it would do to him, but still, he’d asked. He’d fought. He’d wanted. And he was left with a dead mother and a sister who seemed to hate him, who had betrayed him. He was alone, and dirty, and he felt sick again.

“I-- let’s get out of here,” he said weakly, and turned to go, not looking to see if he was followed. 

He didn’t run to his mansion this time; didn’t even know where his steps took him until he stopped, his feet slipping in sawdust, the dim light filtering through the cracks of the wall of the clinic. Oh. He blinked, and then kept moving, finding a corner to fold himself in, forehead on knees. 

He didn’t know how long he’d been there, didn’t realize until a soft, startled voice filtered in above him. “--Fenris?!”

He looked up halfway, head just barely moving, and Anders stood over him, still pale, eyes wide. “Maker, you came  _ here?! _ We nearly tore Kirkwall apart to find you! Why did you-- I should tell Hawke--”

“No,” he rasped, and Anders stopped, his hands still fluttering helplessly. “Don’t. I just...don’t. Not yet.”

Anders blinked, and then softened, moving to sit on his knees in front of him. “Okay,” he said gently. “You...do you want to talk? I won’t blame you if you don’t.”

Fenris blinked, and opened his mouth to say no, but that isn’t what came out. “I was scared,” he said, his voice trembling, a child’s. “All my anger, all this hate, and I saw him and was  _ scared _ . I was in Tevinter again, his slave, and he my _ domine _ . I-- what he did to me, it can’t be erased, not even by his death, can it?” His voice cracked. “I’ll never be free of him. Never be clean, not from his touch, his words, his-- he--” He choked off and lurched forward, Anders catching him and helping him sit better as the bile finally came up, and he retched, shaking violently until there was nothing left in his stomach, and he slumped sideways into Anders’ lap, the mage running still shaky fingers through his hair.

“No,” he said quietly. “I doubt it’ll ever go away. Not what he did to you, and not what happened to me. But it’s part of us, isn’t it? It’s what got us here. It led me to the Wardens, to Justice, to Kirkwall. And it led you to freedom, to this place and to...to us. Even if you can’t make it go away, you can-- it makes you stronger.”

Fenris laughed bitterly. “How? All I feel right now is weak. Empty.”

“You’re stronger than that,” Anders said softly, the hand not in his hair moving to rest gently on his arm, thumb stroking the markings there. “I hear it. _ You _ . It’s the song in the lyrium, the song in you. You shaped the sound it makes, and it sings of strength. The pain and hurt and anger that you carry, and the strength you found it in, the strength to carry on and shape yourself out of the fragments he left behind. It...the lyrium in you sings your song, Fenris, and it’s not the song of a weak man.”

He let out a soft sigh. “Oh,” he murmured. “Is it...what does it sound like?”

“You,” Anders said. “It sounds like you, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.” He laughed softly. “Justice once said that lyrium...the song it makes is-- is proof that there is good to be found, even in misfortune. That’s...honestly, that’s the best description of you I can ever manage to think up.”

He let out a sigh. “You’re not alone,” he said, echoing Hawke. “You have family. We aren’t blood, but...Hawke, Isabela, Merrill, Aveline, Varric, Maker, even Carver...and-- and me...we’re all your family. You found us, we found you, and...and we’re all family. You have us, even if you don’t have Varania. You’ll never be alone.”

Fenris sucked in a breath, and shifted closer to Anders, and it isn’t until he felt something wet on his face that he realized he was crying. Him? Crying? He couldn’t...he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Had he ever cried before? 

But now he was, and Anders didn’t say a word, just tugged him upright to hug him properly, and Fenris found himself hugging him back, clinging tightly, the feathers on his shoulder tickling his cheek. But he didn’t care.

Nothing mattered right now, nothing except the warmth of arms around him, the warmth of a hand in his hair and the soft breath of someone whispering comforting words.

He wasn’t alone.

\--

5.

How had everything gone so wrong?

It had all happened so fast. Almost overnight, the mage who had sat and held him together when everything had shifted under him, the mage who never left his thoughts -- was gone. In his place was a stranger, cold and angry. A raven, an ill-omened bird of war had replaced the ragged sparrow, and not even Varric could get a smile out of him, a laugh. They had all tried, dangling familiar jokes and banter in front of him, things he had always used to join in on, to no avail. The healer was gone; in his place was only justice.

Was only  _ vengeance _ , they realized, stomachs twisting as the ashes of the Chantry fell around them.

Fenris wanted to shout, wanted to grab Anders by the collar and shake, rattle the mage’s bones until he loosened the spirit’s hold, until it fell out and the mage was himself again. To scream at him until this made sense again. He’d trusted Anders, believed in him. That he was different. He was a healer, selfless, compassionate, a good man. He fought for freedom, for mages, but he knew the risks, knew the dangers.

And he’d betrayed them all. He’d destroyed the Chantry, destroyed any chance of compromise, and now blood ran in the streets as Templars killed mages, mages killed Templars, and Meredith bayed for the heads of every mage in the Circle.

Fenris’s hands itched on his blade as he cut through Templars and abominations -- for of course Hawke would choose to aid the mages, he _ was _ one, and Fenris couldn’t bring himself to turn away from his family now -- and he kept glancing beside him at the scarecrow in black, his face too-white under freckles and shadowed eyes, knuckles too-white on his staff, honey brown eyes red with unshed tears. 

He had promised, years ago. He had promised that he would kill him, before he hurt anyone. If he ever lost himself to his anger, to vengeance, Fenris had promised he’d end his life before anyone died. And he hadn’t kept that, had he? He hadn’t seen, or hadn’t wanted to, when Anders was lost (none of them had), and now people were dead. Now people were dying. 

He had watched Anders wait for a knife, and had almost done it when Hawke couldn’t, but then, like now, his hands trembled, and he couldn’t.

He hated himself for his own weakness; too weak to keep a promise, too weak to end the life of an abomination that was no longer his mage. But the shadow that remained wasn’t vengeance now, either. Just a shadow, a scrap of a spirit and a man that knew that he had done something terrible, that his life was no longer his own. And he couldn’t bring himself to crush that last sad little spark that was all that was left.

They made it to the Gallows, fought together against the last desperate tragedy of an Enchanter too far gone to hope, fought together -- with the aid of unlikely allies; a brother returned, an assassin paying a debt, a captain finally choosing to do right -- against a commander gone mad with red lyrium, bending the very statues of the Gallows to her will.

And they won, together. But victory could only last so long, and in the rubble and ashes, they had to part ways.

Hawke boarded Isabela’s ship with a laugh, throwing mocking salutes and shouting terrible pirate jokes as they sailed. Varric stayed, as did Aveline -- their city needed them. Merrill disappeared back to a clan she needed to protect. Carver returned to his Warden’s post.

And soon it was just Fenris, standing and watching the wind catch at the hair and the coat of the man next to him, folded in on himself as he stared down at the water of the pier beneath them.

“Don’t jump in,” Fenris said suddenly, breaking the silence. “I can’t swim near well enough for the both of us.”

Anders started, eyes wide and wondering as he looked up -- an odd sensation, as the mage was taller normally, but hunched like this his eyes had to flick upwards to meet Fenris’s gaze. “...You’re still here,” he said quietly, and his voice was hoarse and raw from shouting, from holding back tears. “I didn’t think you, of all people, would…”

“Would what?” Fenris said, sharper than intended. “Stay with you? You’re falling apart, mage. If we left you alone, you  _ would  _ jump in the sea -- or worse. And I’d rather you not do that, if it’s all the same to you.”

Anders laughed, then, a weak noise that sounded forced and strained. “It’d be better if I did,” he said. “Wouldn’t hurt anyone else that way.”

Perhaps it was unintentional, but Fenris could hear the undercurrent in his words.  _ You promised _ , it said.  _ You said you would kill me before this happened. You lied. _ And that stung, more than he’d thought it would.

“Don’t,” Anders said, and Fenris wondered if something was showing on his face. “Please, don’t. What I did…” His voice cracked. “He should have killed me. I shouldn’t-- I deserved it. I’m a monster.”

Fenris growled. “Now is a fine time to start repeating that,” he said, frustrated. “If all men that were monsters died as they deserved, I would be dead with you.”

“No,” Anders said, turning to face him. “You-- no. You’re not a monster. Why would you say that? I’m an-- I’m an abomination. You saw what I did, what I caused. All this death, it’s my fault. I was arrogant and stupid and now I’m a monster. But not you, you’re not a monster, you’re--”

“I’m a monster,” Fenris cut him off. “Danarius made me a monster. Just because he’s gone and I’m free doesn’t change that.” He took a breath. “Years ago, Danarius and I were on Seheron. There was an ambush, and I was injured, left for dead. There was a tribe, on the island, Fog Warriors. They took me in and cared for me...and then Danarius returned. The Fog Warriors refused to let him take me, but he ordered me to kill them--” He swallowed. “And I  _ did _ . I killed them all.”

Anders blinked. “Fenris…”

“Danarius made me a monster, mage,” he snapped. “I have long since accepted that. Frankly, if you are a monster as well, that doesn’t bother me. What  _ does  _ is that you think being a monster is something deserving of death. No, far better that we monsters live with what we’ve done, so that we never forget what we are. So we know what we are capable of, and use that to keep the world safe from us.” His hands opened and closed, making instinctive fists. “Death is no peace. What we deserve is to  _ live _ .”

There was silence for a very long moment, and he almost didn’t hear Anders speak again, so quiet was his voice, so broken. “How?” He asked. “How can I live with this? With him in my head, knowing what he can make me do?” His breath hitched. “I don’t know what to do, Fenris. Everything hurts, and I-- I can’t. What I did, how can you--” His voice rose, cracked and hysteric, and his eyes went again from the floor to Fenris’s face. “How can  _ you  _ forgive me?! You-- you hate mages! I just proved you right! I’m an abomination, a monster, dangerous-- how can you be so willing to--” 

He dropped to his knees with just enough warning for Fenris to catch him, and together they sank to the ground. Anders wasn’t crying, not yet, but he was shaking with enough force to make it visible, to send the feathers on his pauldrons trembling as if about to come loose. “Why don’t you kill me?” He choke out, tone half-begging. “I proved you right...you should want me dead.”

“I always knew this would happen,” Fenris said quietly. “My only regret is that I-- I was unable to keep my promise to stop it before it could occur. But I knew.”

Anders swallowed back a sob. “Why didn’t you?” He asked, hands on Fenris’s chest, curled into loose fists. “Why?” 

“I couldn’t,” Fenris admitted quietly. “And I am sorry.”

Silence fell, and Anders shook his head. “You--” His voice broke and he just shook his head again, staring at Fenris.

“I couldn’t kill you then,” Fenris repeated. “And I do not want to now. You have always been...an exception, to a great many things. Proof that mages can be good, can be kind, can heal. A mage that would fight his own if he believes them to be in the wrong. A good man, a compassionate one. One who understands why I mistrust and does not fault me for it.” He looked away, out across the water. “Today I saw a good man made a monster by desperation, rage, and power. But I also saw the monster the idol and blind hatred made of the Knight-Commander, as I saw the monster fear and resignation made of the First Enchanter. It is not easy to judge which of those was the worst of them...” He sighed. “But it is not the one in my arms breaking to pieces over what he’s done, who regretted his deed the moment it happened.”

Anders was silent for another long moment. “Oh,” he whispered finally. 

“Oh,” Fenris agreed.

He felt Anders’ fists uncurl on his chest, palms flat against his breastplate, and then slide down to his waist and wrap around it in a tight embrace as his forehead fell to rest on his shoulder. He sat and held him a moment longer, before lighting his markings -- he could hear the mage exhale, tension leaving his shoulders as he listened to the song Fenris knew he could hear; the lyrium song, that he’d said was beautiful not too long ago.

They sat a moment, words on their tongues that refused to be said, and when Anders finally shifted to look Fenris in the eyes again, honey brown meeting deep green, and it no longer needed to be spoken aloud; they knew. There was comfort in knowing, that they didn’t have to dance around each other, cautious and uncertain and half not-wanting (or trying to convince themselves of that). The soft kiss Fenris pressed to his mage’s forehead was an affirmation, not a confession.

“Where will you go from here?” Fenris asked. Anders sighed, shrugging helplessly.

“Somewhere. Anywhere. Maybe Ferelden? It’s the only other place I know. It’s not so bad, past the dog shit and brown…” He laughed quietly. “I don’t know beyond that.”

Fenris chuckled himself, shaking his head. “Well,” he said finally. “Wherever you go, someone needs to keep an eye on you.” He smiled slightly. “I would go with you, wherever it is. If you’d have me.”

“Of course,” Anders replied, standing and holding a hand out for Fenris to join him. “I’d...be more than happy, if you came with me.”

Fenris took his hand, and stood. “Then I will,” he said. “We’ll go together.”

And neither of them would be alone.


End file.
